


Soothing Disarray

by NicheTales



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Artist!Matsukawa, Depression, Dissociative Episodes, Hallucinations, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Illness, Therapist!Akaashi, maladaptive daydreaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 01:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicheTales/pseuds/NicheTales
Summary: “Sometimes I can’t tell when I’m awake anymore, or if I’m dreaming or daydreaming. It all blurs together.”





	Soothing Disarray

Had he the energy, Issei would be brimming with anxiety, his stomach curled into sickening, acidic knots and throat tight. His exhaustion long surpasses any social anxiety, any expectations or interest in anything other than the canvases beneath his arms, and the burgundy door with an ornate chrome handle in his grasp. It’s so familiar, he almost doesn’t remember that he’s not supposed to be here anymore. There’s no hesitation, pulling the door open with a familiar creak. 

"Matsukawa-san, when was the last time you slept?"

"Not even a hello?" He shifts the linen canvas under his arm, swallows under Akaashi’s gaze tucked behind meticulously cleaned reading glasses. 

"We're well past that by now."

"Are you sure?" 

Issei grimaces. It’s the wrong thing to ask, he knows it. It doesn’t matter, Akaashi always sees through him anyways. He misses the touch, the taste, the slide of smooth skin. He misses something he was never supposed to have. Issei hopes that Akaashi misses something of his, too. 

"I must look something fierce." 

Akaashi pauses. "Perhaps." 

Matsukawa watches Akaashi meticulously rearrange the items of his bag, a poor distraction from someone who isn’t even making noise. 

"You want to show me your paintings? That's why you're here?" 

"I need to sleep." 

Akaashi searches his face, bites his lip with worried teeth. 

"...Are they getting worse? More frequent?" 

Issei doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Akaashi sees through any mask, reads him better than anyone, even if he never said a word. Only one other person had ever pried behind his stoicism, and he misses his best friend more than he ever could hope to articulate. 

“Have you talked to Hanamaki-san?” 

Akaashi sighs when Issei declines, an almost inaudible huff of breath from his nose, but doesn’t move to get up, nor stop him from placing the canvas on the coffee table between them. He hums a contemplative noise, something more soothing and pleasant than it ought to be, memories of silken bedsheets and the fractured lens of the very same reading glasses Akaashi sets up on the wood of the coffee table. The lens has been long replaced.

“You’re not supposed to be here; although, I am sure you already know that, Matsukawa-san.” 

Issei slides the canvas further across the table between them, angles it towards Akaashi, though he knows there’s no possibility Akaashi would ever misunderstand his paintings. He hadn’t for years as his therapist, and hadn’t during their affair, although he severed ties and withdrew. Akaashi leans against the counter, curls falling into his eyes, and Issei itches to brush them away like he used to. 

“You’ve always painted about wildlife, Matsukawa-san,” Akaashi says plainly, “So I know that you’re aware that is not the typical eye color for an owl.” 

“It’s not,” Issei confirms quietly. “But it is yours.” 

Akaashi blinks, stares at the canvas as if to dissect its contents with a methodical eye. He’s unsure whether to be happy or sad that Akaashi won’t look at him. He wants to feel Akaashi’s gaze on him like before, see the soft gaze and the way his eyes melt and glisten, but all he receives is the same stoic, guarded look Akaashi would give any client. 

It hurts more than he cares to admit, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Issei craves to call him Keiji again. 

“This is what you see? When you let your mind wander?” Akaashi asks softly, more quietly than Issei expects. 

“It’s more than that-” 

“It always is.” Akaashi interrupts, lips twisted in a contemplative frown. They both know he references more than just the content of Issei’s dreaming. 

“Yes.” Issei confirms, “It has plagued me for weeks now. Always an owl with eyes like… those.” 

_ Like yours. _

“And where are you in these daydreams? Flying?” Akaashi sits back softly on the plasticine of the sofa, eyes flicking between Issei and the painted canvas as he pulls his bag shut, tucks it to the side away from his feet. 

“Never flying. That would be too cliche.” Issei almost smiles, a sad sort of grimace. “Just walking. Through forests, usually. Sometimes places I’ve been, but usually places I’ve never seen before. Sometimes I follow him, and sometimes he follows me.” 

“And you said it’s more severe? The maladaptive daydreaming, and how is the insomnia?” 

“Sometimes I can’t tell when I’m awake anymore, or if I’m dreaming or daydreaming. It all blurs together.” Issei sits on the carpet slowly, waiting for any cue from Akaashi that he’s not welcome to do so. The cue never comes. 

“And you’ve been working on grounding like we discussed before for dissociative episodes.” Akaashi says, a muttering of thoughts aloud rather than a question. “But I suppose you’re not here to discuss the severity or frequency of your episodes, Matsukawa-san. Why do you think the contents of your daydreams and paintings have shifted?” 

Issei knows the last thing he should say is that he misses Akaashi, though the statement sits eager on the tip of his tongue. 

“Your daydreams have always had such immaculate detail, always so eerily accurate, so why did they change now?” Akaashi presses. 

“Some things have changed…” Issei says lamely. “Sorry, that’s not what you want to hear.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want to hear, Matsukawa-san.” Akaashi fidgets his fingers, an old habit that he never used to do during sessions, not until he grew a little more comfortable with Issei than he ought to be. “Why are you here? This isn’t what was agreed upon.” 

“We-” Issei swallows, “We never agreed on anything, Keiji.” 

Akaashi freezes, clears his throat and slides the canvas across the table to Issei with a purposeful hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Issei begins, “I missed you. You could always help when things became too much.” 

“Matsukawa-san, I lost my license.” 

Issei’s stomach drops. “You-?” 

“I can’t help you, Issei.” Akaashi stands from the sofa, gathers his bag from the floor and Issei wishes he had seen before how it was full of all Akaashi’s personal items from the office. “I wish I could provide you with the help you need, but I can’t lose more than I already have.” 

“You haven’t lost me.” Issei sighs, stands from the carpet slowly to gather his canvas. “No matter what you think happened, I’m still here.” 

Issei leaves before Akaashi can reply, his canvas heavy beneath his arm and mind swirling with images and colors and sounds, the step of his feet a beat of wings and gust of wind, a lift for flight he’ll never have. In his mind’s eye, he wishes the owl’s eyes were gold. He tries to force it time and time again, but every time he relaxes, the color flicks from gold to a beautiful steely, sea-like blue. 

He sees Akaashi again hours later, but only in his dreams, the very few he gets to see anymore. It’s better than nothing, but worse than anything else. 

Issei startles awake again, the shatter of ceramic too close for comfort, and frowns at the mug shattered on the kitchen floor of his flat, his own hand empty and hovering. The sleepwalking is new, and Issei muses to himself that if he didn’t know better, he would think he’s becoming narcoleptic. He can only be thankful that the mug wasn’t full of boiling water this time. 

Rubbing his face with his palm, he tries to work the fatigue from his features, tries to wake up, although he wants nothing more than to fall asleep. Maybe forever. 

Instead, Issei sits down on the rug in his living room to paint again, forgets the fragments of ceramic shattered across his kitchen floor in favor of pigments of gold and brown and black and a sea-like blue. He thinks, if looked at too long, eyelids drooping a little too much, it almost appears green. 

He doesn’t think about it, but he also can’t think about anything else. 

The amount of times Issei catches himself staring into nothing, into only the contents of his own mind instead of painting, is painfully frustrating. 

A knock on the door brings him from his reverie, and he stubs his toe with a curse as he scrambles to stand, the screech of the chair sliding against the tile, gross fingernails clawing against the inside of his skull. He thinks it’s Iwaizumi, the one who’s always still come by after Issei has withered away over the years. 

He swings the door open wide to see black hair curled instead of spiky, but eyes just as intense as his old friend. 

“Akaashi,” Issei greets, rubs his eyes as if to clear away the sand of sleep. “Akaashi?” 

“Let me in please, Matsukawa-san,” Akaashi hesitates for a second.  _ “Issei.” _

He doesn’t move. 

“We have things we need to talk about.” Akaashi stands tall but fidgets, rubbing and pulling and soothing his nerves with his fingers until Issei finally steps aside. 

Issei can’t think of anything to say, can’t seem to bring words to his lips. He leads Akaashi to the kitchen, ignores the way Akaashi quirks a brow when he scoots sharp fragments of broken ceramic with a bare foot. It’s better than stepping on it. 

They sit at the island counter, a mess of crumbs, dirty dishes, and splatters of paint brushes in every color between them. It takes a moment before Issei realizes that Akaashi is talking to him, that he hadn’t been listening, or more accurately, couldn’t  _ hear _ anything Akaashi says. 

“..won’t get my practice back, and it’s not your fault. It never had been, and never will be. My actions are my own. I shouldn’t…” Akaashi’s voice fades in and out with Issei’s focus. He can’t look away, watches the way sea blue eyes feel so soft yet look so sharp, the way feathers of greys and black mold out from skin and hair until all that Issei sees before him is the owl. 

It’s beautiful, almost eerie the way the eyes never seem to blink or look away. Issei can’t escape, his heart palpitating within his chest, hands shaking on the mess of the countertop.  _ It’s so loud, _ but he can’t hear anything at all. It’s too much but the owl’s beak never opens and Issei  _ can’t hear anything. _ He could hear a pin drop on the linoleum and fractured ceramic, if there was anything to hear louder than the sound of his own heartbeat. 

Issei grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubs them furiously as if it would clear away the fog. Akaashi never stops talking, but never seems to say a word and Issei has never felt his sanity slip so far, never felt the panic and urge to vomit sit so tightly at the back of his throat, and he just wants to sleep. 

He jolts upright when he hears a knock on the door, a name on the tip of his tongue ready to call out, but when he opens his eyes, the owl is gone. But, Issei can breathe again. He stands from the stool at the island of his kitchen, shards of ceramic piercing into his foot with a growl of an expletive. He moved it. He  _ knows _ he’s moved it. 

But Akaashi isn’t here. 

When Issei reaches the door, he swings it open a little lazily, his mind fogged and drowsy, and no matter how long he stares, he can’t seem to stop seeing the owl at his door, Akaashi’s words moving at a speed its beak could never keep up with. He almost slams the door shut, but listens to the owl speak, to Akaashi. 

_ He’s missed Keiji so much. _

“Let me in please, Matsukawa-san,” Akaashi says, “Issei. We have things we need to talk about.” 

Issei steps aside, pushes the bloody ceramic on the kitchen floor to the side with a bare foot, and sits down to listen again. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Rare Pairs Zine  
> I have such an affinity for therapist Akaashi  
> You can definitely expect it in future works >.>


End file.
